Brenda Hiatt (9 page)

“I am trying to be patient, Holly, but all this secrecy seems very unnatural to me. As your husband, I have a right to know—” he broke off, striving to subdue the bitterness in his tone “—to know about anything that is troubling you.”

She shifted beside him, turning away. “I know you do. You could…you could demand the truth, even beat it out of me, and still be perfectly within your rights.”

Pain and shock turned his voice cold. “I am sorry that you should think me capable of such a thing. I said before that I was willing to listen whenever you were ready to talk. Plainly you do not trust me enough to do that.”

He sat up, groping for his breeches. “I must apologize for breaking my word. Pray believe that it was concern for you that led me to do so. I will not make that mistake again.” Ignoring her soft gasp of protest, he pulled on his buckskins, draped his shirt over his shoulders and left the room.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Holly received a tersely worded note on her breakfast tray. Hunt was going into the Shires to cub hunt for the next few weeks. He had intimated to her before that he intended to train the young hounds primarily on Wickburn lands, but he had apparently changed his mind. Already, he had “walked” this year’s pups to local farmers rather than going farther afield as he might have. She knew that this sudden decision must be the result of her refusal to confide in him last night.

She had come so close to doing so! Had he coaxed her but a little bit more, she would have relented and told all. She had known it at the time, and intentionally said what she knew would hurt him, though it nearly broke her heart to do so. And instead of coaxing, he had turned cold and left her—just as she had intended.

Holly crushed the note, feeling the stiff corners of the paper cutting into her palm. Perhaps it was just as well that Hunt would be gone for a while. After last night, she needed time to prepare fresh defences for her heart if she were to remain silent. She had to keep Hunt’s career—and Noel’s life—safe a while longer.

S
TILL, IT WAS
with a renewed sense of hope that Holly tackled the tasks the dowager set her over the next two weeks. Feeling needed was a wonderful tonic for depression, she found. August was well advanced and harvest, meagre as it was, under way when Hunt finally returned. Coming back from visiting a family whose cottage had burned to the ground two days previously, she saw his cloak hanging on a hook by the kitchen door.

Pausing only to wash her hands, she hurried upstairs to greet him. On reaching the front parlour, she found him already in conversation with the duke. The duchess, the dowager and Reginald looked on in evident concern.

“Very serious indeed,” the duke was saying. “Had you not come back today, I’d have sent someone after you.”

“What is it?” Holly interrupted precipitately. “Has there been an accident? Is someone hurt?” Fresh from the sad ruins from that fire, she thought first of the tenants.

Hunt turned to face her, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Neither warmth nor coldness showed in his expression. “Not precisely,” he said shortly. “There have been disturbing developments in London, and Father and I must be off at once.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be best,” said the duke, plainly relieved to have Hunt here to make the decision for him. He turned to his wife. “My dear, I must take my leave of you, I fear, but you will join me in Town for the Little Season, will you not?”

“Of course.” She came forward to kiss him on the cheek, flicking a glance in Holly’s direction. “Let me ring for one of the maids to help your man pack.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Holly asked, curiosity warring with disappointment.

Hunt finally seemed to really see her. “Certainly,” he replied. “You may tell Cook to prepare a hamper for us to take. That way we’ll only have to stop to change horses. We can get several hours behind us before nightfall.”

“But what—” she began.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Holly. We are not at liberty to discuss what has happened—with any of you.” He smiled then, and a trickle of warmth stole through her.

Hoping that her own smile told Hunt what was in her heart, she hurried to do his bidding.

D
URING THE RETURN TRIP
to London, Holly almost welcomed Camilla’s inconsequential chatter, as it prevented her from dwelling on her own thoughts. Still, there were occasional lulls during which she wondered what matter had taken Hunt so suddenly to Town—and whether it had anything to do with Teasdale or Noel.

As there was no way she could discover the truth until they reached London, she put the subject from her mind, determinedly engaging the duchess and Reginald in desultory conversation once again. She even went so far as to spend the final day of travel voluntarily attempting to expand her mother-in-law’s limited French vocabulary.

During the pomp and bustle that greeted their arrival at Wickburn House, Holly wished again that she and Hunt needn’t share a house with his parents. Hunt had spoken of no more lengthy diplomatic journeys. Why should it not now be possible for them to set up their own household elsewhere? If the opportunity arose, she would ask him about it.

Just now, though, he was not present. He and the duke, they had been informed by Tilton, had left early for the Foreign Office and, if they followed recent precedent, would not return until late. She had, perforce, to turn her mind to other matters. That proved far easier than she had expected.

“Oh, my dear, I am far too exhausted to deal with these just now,” said Camilla, waving at the huge stack of correspondence
that awaited them on the escritoire in the drawing-room. “Would you be an angel and sort through them for me? Doubtless you can handle the responses to all but a few. Just set aside any that require my personal attention.” With that, she rang to have tea and a tray delivered to her chambers and allowed Reginald to escort her upstairs.

With the duchess’s abdication, Holly found she had other responsibilities, as well, including consultations with the cook and housekeeper. She blessed the dowager again for her invaluable tutelage on such matters. Finally she turned to the mountain of correspondence and began to sift through it. Though disappointed, she was not particularly surprised to find nothing from Noel in the stack. Presumably if Teasdale could intercept her letters to him, he would similarly prevent Noel’s from reaching her. With a sigh, she opened the first invitation in the pile.

True to Tilton’s prediction, the duke and marquess did not return until nearly midnight. Holly stayed downstairs answering letters and invitations, in hopes that she and Hunt might have an opportunity to talk. At the very least, she wanted him to know she cared enough to wait up for him. She had made it more than halfway through the stack when she heard the front door open.

“Good evening, my dear,” said Hunt cordially, coming in with his father. Though he kissed her cheek in welcome, his expression was troubled and tired. “I trust your journey was not too fatiguing?”

“Not at all,” she lied, longing to fling herself into his arms but acutely conscious of the duke’s presence.

“Camilla gone up to bed, has she?” her father-in-law asked then, coming up to salute her other cheek more warmly than Hunt had done.

“Yes, nearly an hour since, your grace.”

“I’ll go up and greet her, then,” he said with a broad smile for both of them. Nodding placidly, he sauntered out
of the room. Whatever was troubling Hunt did not seem to be preying on the duke’s mind.

Holly turned nervously back to her husband, wondering how she could ask about what was going on without sounding too eager or interested.

“We have been expecting your return a week and more,” he said before she could speak.

“Yes, well, the duchess put off our departure until the coach could be resprung. Not that it made for a faster journey, mind you!”

She was gratified by a faint spark of answering humour in Hunt’s eyes. “And you were trapped in the coach with her the whole way. Poor Holly.” His gaze softened and she felt an instant response.

“Not so poor,” she said, taking a step towards him. A muffled cough from the doorway halted her.

Instantly the tenderness was gone as Hunt swung round to face his secretary. “Ah, there you are, Simmons. I require you to take down a letter. You were not already abed, I hope?”

“No, my lord.” The man hesitated, glancing at Holly.

“I was just going upstairs.” She forced herself to speak brightly to mask the stab of disappointment she felt. “Good night, my lord.”

The marquess nodded almost absently. The troubled, shuttered look was back, and she wondered if he had already forgotten she was there. Feeling vaguely bereft, she made her lonely way up the stairs.

Hunt also felt a pang of loss as he watched her go—he had looked forward to her first night back in Town. At Wickburn, they had come close to patching things up, and he had hopes that they might now complete the process. Almost at once, though, his thoughts turned back to the matter at hand.

He was unsure whether his father fully appreciated the gravity of the situation at the Foreign Office, since nothing
seemed to ruffle the duke’s cheerful calm. Hunt had long faced the fact that his father’s intellect was not of the first order. Wickburn’s diplomatic skills consisted primarily in his genial affability. Hunt was sure he would have been politely removed from his post years ago had Hunt not worked tirelessly as his aide, covering his father’s worst blunders before they could be detected.

Now, though, it appeared more likely than ever that Hunt would be promoted to a position where he could be of little help to his father, if of rather more use to England. But before he could feel comfortable accepting such a post, he was first determined to solve the mystery surrounding an event that ironically made his appointment almost certain.

Leaning against the mantel, Hunt began to dictate yet another unsatisfactory report to Lord Castlereagh.

T
HE MOOD IN
L
ONDON
, Holly soon found, was still fairly jubilant, for Wellington had continued to advance against Napoleon’s troops and nearly every week brought news of fresh victories. She hoped that this relaxed atmosphere might make it easier for her to discover what had brought Hunt and the duke to Town last month—and what Teasdale was currently plotting.

“Do you come with us to the ridotto tonight, brother?” she enquired of Reginald two days after their arrival. She had not had a single moment alone with Hunt since that first night, but she rather suspected that Reginald had.

“Aye, Mother insists, especially since it is by no means certain that Father or Hunt will be able to attend, what with this continuing uproar at the Foreign Office. Not that I mind, especially. A ridotto is bound to be vastly more amusing than the usual diplomatic fare—the masses always add a note of piquancy to an event, don’t you think?”

Holly ignored the question. “So they still have not settled that business, have they?” she asked casually, trying to give the impression that she knew all about it.

“Not yet. And I wonder now if they ever will. After all, Meecham was the best man they had for organizing this sort of an internal investigation.”

“Lord Meecham? Is he not the other man being considered for the post of permanent undersecretary?” That much information, at least, she had been able to glean from Camilla. She picked up a magazine from the table beside her and began to leaf through it.

“Yes, I’d say Hunt has that one in the bag now, with Meecham dead. He seems more concerned with discovering the murderer, though, than securing Castlereagh’s final approval. Perhaps he believes the one will lead to the other.”

The magazine nearly fell from Holly’s suddenly nerveless fingers. “Dead?” she asked shakily. “Lord Meecham was murdered?”

Reginald looked at her strangely. “Thought you knew. It’s all over the Foreign Office, though they’ve done a good job keeping it out of the papers. Seems he had nearly discovered who their traitor was—” He frowned. “You did know about
that,
didn’t you?”

She nodded hastily.

“Good. Wouldn’t want Hunt to think I can’t be trusted with this sort of information. Anyway, Meecham must have been even closer than he realized, for there’s little doubt it was the traitor who killed him. It’s put a scare into the paid informants, apparently, for Hunt is having a devil of a time getting any of them to open up now.” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d see my straitlaced brother involved in something so unsavoury. Not his sort of thing at all, I should think.”

Holly said nothing, remembering what Noel had written on that score in his last letter. Perhaps Hunt had been more involved in such matters all along than anyone in the family suspected.

“Well, if Hunt hasn’t mentioned any of this to you, pray don’t let on I’ve told you,” Reginald cautioned her when she remained silent.

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But thank you for telling me, Reg. Hunt has been so preoccupied that I was worried about him. At least now I understand what he is up against” And what she was up against, as well, she added silently.

Holly had thoroughly dissected this information and had determined what her next step had to be by the time Teasdale accosted them at the ridotto in the gardens of Carlton House that night. But even knowing what she did, she found it almost impossible to believe that this polished, seemingly civilized man could actually be a murderer.

“Good to see you again, Reg!” he exclaimed jovially, clapping Reginald on the shoulder. “And you are both looking as lovely as ever, your grace, my lady.” He bowed to Camilla and Holly. For the moment, he seemed all affability, his expression holding no threat. “It’s a wonder I was able to locate you in this mob.” He gestured at the press of humanity around him.

Holly forced a brilliant smile to her lips. “It is fortunate indeed, Mr. Teasdale. I had wondered when we might have the pleasure of your company again, now we are returned to Town.” She knew that Reginald and the duchess might wonder at her words, but there was no possibility of privacy in this crowd, and she feared that if she did not face Teasdale at once she would lose her nerve.

“I am flattered, Lady Vandover,” he responded. “I have missed your sparkling conversation, as well.” She was sure she did not imagine the meaning in his tone. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to honour me with a dance?”

Fighting an instinctive revulsion, she assented. As he led her into the milling throng of dancers, Holly girded herself to say what she must while she had the opportunity.

“It pains me, my lady, to find that your influence over your husband is not so great as I had hoped,” said her partner while she was still ordering her thoughts. “’Twould be a shame if he were to go the way of his predecessor in this investigation.”

For an instant she was shocked speechless at this blatant admission and threat, but she quickly found her tongue. “You must know, sir, that if aught happened to my husband my silence would no longer be assured. He is your insurance as much as I am his.”

He regarded her narrowly while the movement of the dance took them a pace or two apart. When they came back together he hissed, “Surely you do not forget your brother? His safety also rests in your hands.”

“Ah, yes, my brother,” she replied quickly, before they were forced to move apart again. This was the opening she had hoped for. “I wished to speak to you of him. You have proved yourself capable of exceeding ruthlessness.” He bowed slightly, as though she complimented him. “What assurance have I that my brother is safe even now? I have received no letters from him. For aught I know, you had him hanged months ago.”

His eyes now glittered dangerously, but she thought she detected a trace of concern in their depths. She allowed him to think over her question during the next few movements of the dance, focusing her attention on her steps.

“You play a dangerous game, my lady,” he finally said, his voice low and vicious.

She trilled a high laugh. “La! Surely you will not murder me here, in the Regent’s own gardens, sir?” They were the very words she had been repeating to herself to shore up her courage during the exchange.

“We will not always be in so public a setting,” he reminded her.

Holly lifted her chin defiantly. “You know less of women than I imagined if you believe a threat against me likely to
carry more weight than one against my husband or brother, Mr. Teasdale.” She kept her voice and gaze absolutely steady.

The music ended and he offered his arm. With exaggerated graciousness, she took it.

“I will contrive to bring you proof of your brother’s safety within the week, my lady,” he murmured just before they rejoined Reginald and the duchess. “Whether that safety—or Vandover’s—continues, however, is entirely up to you.”

With that she had to be satisfied—for the moment.

True to his word, five days after the Regent’s ridotto, Holly received an innocuous letter that proved to be a blank sheet folded around a message from Noel. It was dated only three weeks ago. She had no idea whether Teasdale had deciphered their code, but it scarcely mattered, as Noel had written of nothing of importance. Not a word did he say about the recent ugly developments at the Foreign Office, or about Hunt’s role in the investigation, as she had rather hoped he might. Neither did he mention his own covert activities.

The whole of the letter, which was much longer than his previous ones, detailed only the unpleasantness of the life he had been leading in France, giving her the impression he had written it more in a spurt of homesickness than through any desire to impart information.

At least he was still safe, she thought belatedly. She read it through again, consideringly. There was nothing in the letter that could be damaging. Pursing her lips, she refolded the letter and tucked it into the drawer of her writing desk. She would save this letter. Perhaps it could be used to prove to her husband—or to the government—that Noel was working for England, in case Teasdale attempted to carry out his threat.

W
ITH
N
OEL’S SAFETY
assured, at least for the moment, Holly’s next task was to somehow persuade her husband to disengage himself from the investigation—though how she was to do that when they scarcely ever spoke to each other she didn’t know. Nor did she think it likely that she would be successful, even if the opportunity arose. Still, she would have to try—Hunt’s life might depend upon it.